Tongue of Silver Blade

“With the invention of consequence came the advent of lying. The first lie told was to avoid consequence of action, and it had worked, for back then there had been no proof. Lying, twisting the truth, became commonplace, and in a world of ‘innocent until proven guilty’, word was writ. Word was bond. Even if that bond was based on lies.

“As society grew, so too did the finesse of lying. Lying was no longer used as an avoidance of consequence of action, but also as an avoidance of consequence of hurt feelings. A lover would lie to a partner about their whereabouts to save a broken heart. A friend to a friend about an outfit, to save face. A child to a mother, to avoid making that reassuring face sad.”

The professor at the front of the room turned back to his class. He clicked another slide onto the board, and smiled. “And that, class, is why lying was outlawed. Because society was going downhill rather drastically.”

“But sir,” one student asked, raising his hand as he spoke. “What happens if you lie?” The professor looked at the student carefully, deciding whether truth was the best option at this point. The full truth, that is – lying was not possible. But there was nothing against withholding some facts, or telling the state-approved ‘child-friendly’ version of the truth. Still the truth.

“Well…” the professor closed his eyes for a moment. “Quite simply, my child, you’re tortured to death.”

“He must have the most eccentric family,” said Penelope, rolling her eyes. Marcus was there again, regaling his adoring followers with tales that simply couldn’t be true. “Unless he’s figured out how to lie.”

“No-one can lie, Pen,” said Julia, scoffing. “Not even Marcus sodding Cranford.”

“By the sounds of things, you’d think he had.” Penelope said nothing more as they walked past Marcus. Indeed, he told strange stories, of the travels he and his family had been on that summer, that Easter break, that Christmas holiday… and all of it had to be true, because lying meant death. So they said. Neither Penelope nor Julia had thought to try. Too great a risk, they thought. And there was a huge taboo on those who died from lying. Cautionary headstones lay in every cemetery, degrading those poor fools who’d had the gall to try and show the world the entire system they all lived in was a lie in itself.

“And then,” Marcus said, with his usual resounding flourish. “We met the Queen of England.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Marcus, that can’t be true!”

“Do I look like I’m dead to you?” Marcus’ smug smile said it all.

“No, but… but – the Queen of England?! Really?!” Penelope was losing her temper. “How on Earth do you just ‘meet’ the Queen of England?!”

“Passed her in the street.” Marcus gave a shrug. “Any other questions? I’m not lying, Pen. None of us are.”

“Yeah, but I’m beginning to think maybe you’ve figured out how.” Penelope’s glare was so strong it made her own cheeks heat up. Marcus’ eyes held hers for just a fraction too long. Penelope felt her resolve crumble.

Marcus liked Penelope. A lot.

Penelope liked Marcus. A lot. But she’d never dare say it.

Marcus was the richest boy in the entire city- rich enough that, yes, he probably had met the Queen in passing. His father owned a lot of buildings and businesses, groups of people, that kind of thing. And Marcus stood to inherit the lot when his father died. As such, it had occurred to Penelope – much to the chagrin of those around her – that perhaps Marcus and his fortunate family had managed to pay their way to the ability to lie.

“Or, perhaps he just does all this stuff in real life because he’s too rich for words?!” Julia snapped exasperatedly. “I’m not walking home with you any more if every single day is going to be ‘Marcus this’ and ‘Marcus that’. You like him. It’s obvious. Stop hating him and just give in!”

Penelope said nothing. It was the truth, Julia knew because she’d told her.

“I know… I just…” she closed her eyes. “I just… my…” Julia looked at her with a little sympathy. Penelope’s father had died and had been accused of dying from lying, and his headstone said as much. They couldn’t go and visit the grave because of the shame it brought them. But her dad hadn’t ever told a lie in his life… it had made her bitter to anyone who came up with stories. He used to tell stories… had he been punished wrongly for having an imagination?

Marcus took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Another rough day. Rough, in that studying was stressful and he didn’t want to study economics. He was already good at it, and it wasn’t as though his father was about to demand a qualification from him to work in the family business. But his father was adamant that he’d have an education, and so there he was.

Twenty years old, and already the brightest person on the planet. He inspected his glasses. No-one knew. He’d come so far, and no-one knew. Penelope was onto him, but it was pure technicality that kept him alive. A dangerous game, but in his life, where his parents were still so strict even though he’d done so much, where there was no excitement… this was living. Every story he told made him feel alive.

He put the glasses on again and starting thinking of all the lies he could have told that day. The truth of it was that Marcus was a keen coder, and had managed to figure out a way to tap into the government’s censorship veil that flagged up liars and set off their torture. Marcus had managed to understand the layers of security and had bypassed them, tying it altogether in a pair of neat little spectacles that everyone thought were merely a fashion statement. True, in a sense – again, another technicality – but not the whole truth.

Marcus’ glasses allowed him to see the world through the veil. The torture that would happen if he said a certain thing. That was how he kept himself in-line. Every thought that ran through his head was displayed in a weird kind of simulation before him. So, when someone asked him if he liked their shirt, and he wanted to say yes, he’d look down at himself and see a deep flesh wound carved into a part of his skin. And so he’d tell the truth and say he didn’t, that it wasn’t his thing. He was grateful that Penelope hadn’t figured out that he adored her, yet. Because he wasn’t sure how he was going to get around that without a lie. Not a seamless extension of the truth, anyway… she knew he hadn’t really met the Queen of England, but he had been present at Windsor that summer and she had walked by him and nodded at him politely. He had therefore ‘met’ the Queen of England. And technically it had been a passing in the street, too. No-one had bothered to question whether he’d been walking along casually, or if he’d been in a group rally to support the royals. And he hadn’t said a word about either.

But Penelope was onto him. His stories didn’t pass her stringent filters so easily. He groaned and palmed his face. His mother shouted him down for dinner. He put his glasses on and went to swallow down whatever despicable soup she’d concocted that night.

What Marcus hadn’t banked on was Penelope’s resolve to make him tell the complete truth. As such, a few days later, something changed. Penelope had been paired up with him in their Statistics class, and she wasted no time in going full lawyer on him, with a barrage of loophole-less questions. As he looked at her, wondering how the hell to get around it, something strange happened.

“Now tell me, when you went to Cairo last summer, did you really go and visit Tutankhamun’s actual tomb?” As he opened his mouth to reply, a small cut appeared on Penelope’s arm.

“Shit!”

“What?” Penelope looked down. She looked back at him, panicked. “What?!” As the lie died on his lips, another cut appeared. He couldn’t say ‘nothing’. He couldn’t reply with nothing, either.

“I… I didn’t really go to his actual tomb,” he whispered. It seemed to do the trick. The cuts on Penelope’s arms faded. “It was his tomb… it was just rather the museum where his body’s kept sometimes.”

“That… that’s how you do it?!” Penelope hissed. “A technicality?! You avoid the truth?!”

“Shh!” he breathed. He clamped his hand over her mouth. Again, he couldn’t deny it. So, he gave a small nod. “Please don’t shout it…” what had terrified him more was the cut that appeared on Penelope’s face. He looked down at his own hands and saw cuts mirroring hers.

“Why?! Why bother?!” she hissed, shaking her head. “Don’t you have enough in your life?! Who exactly are you trying to impress?!” Marcus felt his heart stop. She’d done it now. “Well?! Is your money not enough for you?!”

“Penelope… I…” as he looked at her, the thought of saying nothing crossed his mind. Thankfully, they were at the back of the class, in a private bubble, separated from other students. None of them therefore heard the scream that erupted from his mouth when, at the thought of saying nothing about it to Penelope, a huge gash opened across her face. “Oh – oh G-God! Your face!” he gasped.

“What?! Fuck me, Marcus, that’s really fucking low!” Penelope growled, shaking her head. “I thought you were better. You know?!”

“I am – Pen, please –“

“Marcus, I like you! You know that?! I like you! A lot! And I thought maybe you’d tell me the full truth, rather than the half-truths you spit to your adoring masses!” her eyes were wet with tears. “But I guess now I realise I’m just so fucking ugly.”

“Pen… it’s not… that… you’re not ugly…” Marcus held her face. “Something is happening…” he looked at her.

“What?!”

“I… c-can’t say –“ as he spoke, another gash opened on her throat. “Penelope!”

“MARCUS!” Penelope yelped as Marcus clutched at her face, panicked. “STOP IT!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He threw the glasses off, sobbing. “I’m sorry!”

“Marcus, you’re scaring me,” Penelope whispered softly. She watched him. “Marcus… tell me what’s going on?”

“L-look through the glasses…” Penelope frowned, but did as she was told with shaking hands. She gasped. Marcus was sat there, covered in scars. She threw the glasses down.

“What was that? Why do you have so many scars?” She looked at him and screamed. Scars covered his body, scars that hadn’t been there before. “Marcus… your… your skin…”

“What?” Marcus looked down. His skin was smooth.

“S-Scars…” she reached out and ran a hand over them. “The glasses… what did you do?”

“I created something that looks through the censorship veil… and every time I almost lie, I see what will happen…” He took a breath. “Penelope, I’ve never lied to you.”

“Then why did you do this?”

“To impress you.” He looked at her. “I thought if you heard how exciting my life was, you’d want to be a part of it.” He gave a shrug.

“You… you like me?” Penelope would have smiled, had she not become painfully aware of what a life of half-truths was doing to him. Did other people see it too? What had happened? He turned to her and took her hands.

“No,” he said softly, smiling. “I don’t like you… I –“ He was cut off, mid-flow, mouth open. He let out a gargling sound, his eyes huge with panic.

“Marcus?!” Penelope looked panicked. “Marcus?! Stop it, you’re scaring me!” In his panicked state, Marcus understood what was happening to him. He’d avoiding full lies for so long, one single lie would kill him instantly. Only he hadn’t been about to lie. It had been another false phrase.

“I – l-love – you –“ Marcus managed to choke out. He collapsed to the floor. Penelope sat there for a second, stunned. She stared helplessly at him, until her body, working on autopilot, picked up the glasses and put them onto her face. The sight before her made her throw up.

Marcus’ throat was gaping open, slit from one ear to the other. A faceless figure stood beside him, holding a bloodied knife.

“Liars shall be executed,” the figure said in a mechanical voice.

“So, children, you see now why it is important to only ever tell the truth?” the professor asked, as his students sat before him, ashen-faced. “We are censored for a reason, dear children. It would do you well to follow the rules, and speak the truth. Lies hurt not only ourselves, but also our friends, and our family. Those we hold dear.”

“Yes, professor,” came the unanimous reply. And then, from the masses, a single voice from a young man wearing a pair of glasses.

“No, professor.”